


many men

by coffeeat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, John Makes Tea, M/M, Tea, Tea shop AU, executions, iwillburnthefeelsoutofyou, okaynotreallyburningfeels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeat221b/pseuds/coffeeat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The executions begin today.</p>
<p>John isn't ready for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	many men

The first time one of his customers is dragged off to be executed, John buys a corkscrew board and hangs it up in his tea shop. He scribbles down the doomed man’s name on a scrap of paper before pinning it up. Many people who come in glance at the lone scrawl of words and shake their heads. Some send pitying looks in its direction, and others clench their jaws. As the months accumulate into piles, so do the names on the board. There are so many that John has to staple the new ones on top of the old. Sometimes, during closing hours, he stands in front of the board and runs his eyes over the layers of dead people. 

It’s not fair, really. 

London has been a fine place to live, at least until the British government decided to sew puppet strings onto the people. The best way to create a perfect country, they say, is to grab for as much control as they can. Controlling the population is the first plan they come up with. They snatch ex-soldiers and strong men off of the streets and lock them into special facilities. They force guns into their hands and brainwash them into becoming executioners. Careful records of names are tucked away into filing cabinets, brought out once a month to determine the handfuls of people that’ll be pinned on the killing list. Men and women are killed at the age of forty if they still haven’t started a family. 

Since John is approaching the age of forty, the government has sent him a warning letter. He knows there isn’t much time left before they’ll hunt him down. He hates it all. He no longer bothers to remember all of the dead people’s names. There’s no point in letting faded Londoners clog up his head, not when they’re all long dead and gone.

He has lost too many people to count.

= • = • = • = • =

The second he catches the frenzied notes of the violin, John drops the kettle and bolts out of the kitchen. “It’s him again!” he hollers, bursting into the front of his tea shop. “The violinist!” A loud yelp and a metallic crash slam into his eardrums. He jerks towards the noise to see a wide-eyed Molly clutching her chest. A silver tray clatters at her feet, golden pastries strewn across the tiled floor.

“Molly!” John exclaims and darts over to her. “Did you hear him?” His hands grasp her thin arms, shaking her a little. 

Her trembling lips part to release a reply, but John is already dashing off towards the door. He shoves it open, the glistening bell squealing as he runs outside. The quivering brunette is left alone in the shop. Her tongue darts over her chapped lips. “Mike?” she calls, her voice ringing through the silent building. Her ears catch a responding, muffled shout from the storage room. “John’s after him again!” she announces.

There is a pause before footsteps ring through the air. Mike pokes his head out of the kitchen. “The violinist?” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s the same thing every year.” He lifts a hand and rakes it through his brown hair. His eyes wander towards the door where John had left through.

Molly follows the gaze. Through the gleaming glass, she can see the short blond diving into the crowd rippling in the wide street. Colorful dancers leap into the air, their long, elegant limbs stretched out in graceful lines. She runs her eyes over the shouting vendors. Her ears catch the muffled conversations melting together in a low, constant buzz. She can only imagine the delicious smells of sizzling food and steaming pastries. 

“It’s a shame,” Molly says, trying to ignore her tightening chest. “It’s a shame that he’s never found him.”

Mike glances at the pastries flaking by her feet. “Maybe he doesn’t _want_ to be found,” he says. “You ever think of that?”

= • = • = • = • =

The violin notes grow louder and more frantic as John rushes closer to them. But each time he thinks he has found the source of the music, the song fades until it melts into the rumble of the crowd. He releases a growl of frustration and rakes his hands through his hair. How can it be so hard to find _one_ bloody violinist?

The first time John heard the violin, it had been an accident. He hadn’t planned on staying for London’s annual festival. But once his ears caught the strains of the trembling instrument, he had been captivated. He has no eyes for the bright decorations, the rich food, or the bloody dancers to seem to pop up everywhere. He spends his time listening for the violin and praying that its song will one day lead him to its master. And what a strange master the musician seems to be. Many in London have captured a taste of his finest music. Yet, no one has caught a glimpse of the face behind it, nor can their mouths form his name. It intrigues John all the more, urging him to press forward into the waves of the rolling crowd.

The violin notes dance around in his ears, seeming to tease him as he scans the clusters of people. _Can’t catch me,_ they taunt him. _Can’t catch me._ But even as they sneer at him, they seem to be growing louder. Nearer. Closer. Until John finally glances up and there. 

His breath catches in his throat.

The violinist is weaving his way through the crowd. He has the perfect grace of a cat twirling itself around its owner’s legs. The violin caresses his cheek as his long bow coaxes soft cries and gentle tears from its strong, wooden form. John’s stare fixes upon the dark mask shielding the man’s face from the world. His hands scream to reach out and rip it away to reveal a map of skin and bones. _My God,_ he thinks, his eyes following the tall man of graceful limbs. _My God._

He’s so close to finding him.

= • = • = • = • =

The violinist doesn’t want to be found. When John manages to corner him in an alley, he refuses to let his name slip from his tongue. His plush bottom lip curls back into a snarl that shouldn’t look so attractive. He is the opposite of everything that he appears to be when lost in the dark, rich notes of his songs. He slings cutting remarks at John when offered a compliment. He takes one glance at him before stripping him bare with sharp, accurate deductions. But nothing, nothing, _nothing_ he sneers will persuade John to storm off in disgust.

Instead, John blurts out the first thing that pops into his head. “Brilliant!” he breathes. The word floats from his mouth and echoes against the walls of the alley. 

The praise seems to surprise the man. He blinks twice, his stiff body relaxing the slightest bit. “Really?” he mutters, and his glistening eyes narrow. 

“Yes,” the blond nods. “Amazing. I . . .” He hesitates before a light splash of pink rises in his cheeks. “I’d love to hear more. About what you do, I mean.” 

There is a pause before the violinist raises a large hand towards his mask. John watches in anticipation as the long fingers curl around the edge. They hesitate before tugging it over his head. Wild, dark curls spring back and bounce from the sudden movement. Suddenly, John’s breath seems to be sucked from his lungs, swallowed by the stunning face in front of him. The colorful eyes blink before plush, pink lips part. 

“You have a tea shop,” the mysterious man says. “I’d like a cup of tea.”

= • = • = • = • =

It takes a while for John to realize that the violinist is determined to stay in his life. His visits to the tea shop increase in frequency as their bond grows stronger. Soon, he takes to watching John close up shop, filling his head with stories of his travels around the world as a musician. Sometimes, he perches upon a wobbly stool behind the counter with John, muttering deductions about the customers into his ear. His warm breath never fails to send shivers skating down John’s spine.

The man still remains as strange as John thought he was in the beginning. There are some days when he’ll receive a text and dart out of the shop without an explanation. Sometimes, long stretches of time pass by before he pops back into John’s life as if he has never vanished. Each time this happens, the blond welcomes him back with open arms. He tries to ignore the budding worry in his chest. It seems to grow bigger with each day that sweeps by. 

“You should become a detective,” John tells the violinist one day as he wipes down the counter. He swallows hard. He hates thinking of the man as “the violinist.” But the mysterious musician has still refused to give him a name.

“No,” is the stiff reply. “No time.”

John rolls his eyes and chucks the damp, dirty towel in his direction, not really looking at him. “You spend all your time here,” he scoffs. “You’ve got plenty.”

Another pause follows. The blond shoots a glance at him to see that his friend’s body has become a little tense. He is staring at the wet counter, eyes following the watery smears. The flannel hangs off of his knee. John’s eyebrows lower into a small frown. 

“You alright?” he asks.

The violinist blinks before his eyes flicker back to John. “Yes,” he says, and his shoulders relax. “I just had a sudden thought.” 

Even though he can see straight through the man’s lie, John knows better than to push the subject. He just shrugs and scoops up the towel from his knee, the rough fabric of his trousers scraping against his fingers. “Fine,” he says, pushing the confusion out of his voice. He turns to head towards the kitchen when he feels the gentle press of fingers against his elbow. He falls still as they tense before wrapping around his arm in a loose embrace. 

“I already have another job,” the man tells him, sounding a little hesitant. 

John glances at him. “Is that why you’re always running off?” he asks. 

The man nods, his soft curls bouncing. 

“Alright,” John says. His tongue aches to ask more questions. But as he gazes down at his stiff friend, he feels that they’ll only remain unanswered.

= • = • = • = • =

“Do you ever want to run away?” John asks the violinist one evening. They’re sitting at one of the tables in the shop, cooling cups of milky tea in front of them.

The man raises an eyebrow at him, wrapping his fingers around his drink. As the heat seeps into his skin, he releases a long, quiet sigh of content. 

The corners of John’s mouth flick up. “From London,” he explains. “Maybe even get out of England.”

There is a pause before the violinist averts his eyes to the tiled floors. “All the time,” he whispers.

The tiny smile on John’s face grows a little damp with sadness. “Well,” he mumbles, clearing his throat. “Maybe one day, we’ll run away together.” He turns his eyes to the glass window, staring at the gleaming cars rushing past them in the streets. “You and I,” he says, relishing how perfectly the words roll around in his tongue.

The musician’s multi-colored eyes swing back to latch onto his face. John tenses for a moment and wonders if it’s wrong to say such things like that to him. He swallows hard, preparing himself for the rejection that is bound to come. But after a few seconds, he feels the intense stare soften. 

And when his friend’s soft mouth opens, it’s to say, “I’d like that. As long as you don’t slow me down.”

The words startle a pleased laugh from the blond.

= • = • = • = • =

Bubbling giggles pour out of the violinist’s mouth. His eyes are crinkling at the corners. He’s clinging to John, hands wrapped around his upper arms and face buried in his shoulder. Hot breath blasts against his skin. John can feel the muscles and skinny limbs trembling against him with mirth. He’s hugging the man, long strings of chuckles escaping his him. He can’t remember what he is laughing at. Probably at the musician, who raises his head to stare at John, quivering lips pressed together to restrain his amusement. But when the blond releases an irrepressible snort, the curly-haired head is jammed back against his neck.

That’s when John makes the mistake of looking down. The younger man’s pale throat captures his attention. The V-shaped dip of his shirt hangs down, revealing a shadowy stretch of more skin. His eyes run along the pale expanse, soaking in the sight when they catch a raised, black line on the surface. 

“Oi,” John says, confusion and concern bubbling up in him. “What’s this?” 

And just like that, the body in his arms stiffens, every muscle tensing. The laughter is snatched out of the air. 

A few seconds of silence crawl by before the man offers an explanation. “Scars,” is the muffled reply against his neck.

John remains unconvinced. “They’re not supposed to look like that.” Then, he blinks. “Wait, _scars_?” he squawks, pushing him away to look at his face. 

The violinist avoids his eyes in favor of staring at the small display of pastries at the front counter. 

“Hey.” The blond shakes the dark-haired man, only to jump back when the taller male straightens and yanks himself out of his grip. 

“I don’t wish to talk about it,” he snaps before sweeping out of the shop, scooping up his coat from the back of a chair.

= • = • = • = • =

A month flies by with a handful of executed customers. On the day of Mike's birthday, John closes the tea shop and drags Mike and Molly outside. They spend the rest of the hours wandering the city and watching the sunlight cast its rays against the tall buildings. They're all trying not to think of Mike's fate - John knows that. With his friend reaching the dreaded age of forty and still without a wife, there is only one thing that could happen, and it's bad.

A week later, Mike pokes his head into the tea shop’s kitchen, the corners of his mouth turning down. “We’ve got another one out there,” he says while jerking his thumb over his shoulder. He hesitates before adding, “This one’s an executioner.” 

John falls still, staring down at the tea leaves scattered in his cupped hands. The gurgles of a boiling kettle pierce through the sudden silence. He can hear the soft scraping of Molly’s shoes as she scurries around in the storage room in a frantic search for more napkins. He closes his eyes for a brief second, inhaling the thick clouds of steam clinging to his body. _Another one?_ he thinks, the words echoing in the darkness of his head. 

“Better get out there, mate,” Mike says. A warning tone rises in his words. “Customers are getting skittish.” 

John manages to nod. “I’ll take care of him,” he forces himself to say. His voice feels strange, as if it doesn’t belong in his throat. His fingers begin to close into fists, trapping the leaves. 

There is a short pause before Mike begins to speak again. “I think . . . well.” Hesitancy laces his words. “I . . . he’s here. To kill someone.”

For the first time in the conversation, John’s gaze jerks up to meet his coworker’s. “I _said_ I’ll take care of him!” he snaps, his fists tightening and crushing the tea leaves. 

A sudden metallic crash erupts from the storage room, followed by a high pitched squeak. 

John pauses, his attention flickering back down to his trembling hands. His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he unfolds his unsteady fingers. He pulls them back and stares down at the bent, green pieces gracing his tan palms. “I’ll make the tea,” he says before he dusts the ruined leaves off. They float to the floor.

=•=•=•=

Tucked behind the safety of his counter, John sends a glare at the executioner sitting in his tea shop. The man is clad in a metal suit, a helmet fitted over his head to hide his face. He is hunched over one of the beige tables. A paper cup pulsing with warm, black tea is cradled in his gloved hands, curls of white steam drifting out into the air. The sight of a content human would normally send a flicker of affection in John’s chest. But as he watches the scene before him, he feels nothing but disgust squirming in the pit of his stomach. His focus shifts to the tittering customers scattered around the shop. They all stare down at their own drinks, refusing to lift up their gaze in fear of catching the dreadful man’s eyes.

John is overwhelmed by the roaring urge to throw the executioner out of his shop. But it’s against the law to kick one out of a public building. All he can do is mutter, “Bloody wanker.” Venom drips from his voice. He grabs a damp washcloth by the cash register and scrubs the counter with unnecessary strength. He smears wet trails that glisten on the smooth, wooden surface, imagining that it’s the British government’s blood.

The back doors fly open as Mike bursts into the room, bearing a tray full of steaming cups. “Order for mint tea?” he asks in a hushed voice that is still loud enough for the customers to hear. 

John watches as the room’s attention slides towards Mike. A tiny smile flickers on his mouth as his friend makes his way over to a pretty blonde. But it soon freezes when the executioner suddenly stiffens, his focus zeroing in onto the brown-haired worker. _No!_ the blond thinks, his breath catching. His grip tightens on the washcloth. His mouth opens to shout a warning to his friend, but the walls of his throat tighten. He can only watch with wide eyes as the killer shoves back his chair, its metal legs screeching against the floor. 

“Mike,” John croaks as the executioner strides across the room towards his target. 

Most of the customers are already lifting their gazes, bodies tensing as the realization unfolds in their minds. A woman releases a shivering gasp before she springs up onto her feet and rushes out of the tea shop.

Mike is setting the blonde’s order on her table, oblivious to the tall man closing in on him. “My grandmother loves this tea,” he is saying before a firm hand grabs his shoulder. “Oi!” he cries, trying to turn around. But strong fingers yank his wrists behind his back, clasping metal handcuffs around them. They embrace his bones with a loud, heavy click. 

John stares at his friend’s stiffening back, unable to tear his eyes away. His hands grip the edge of the counter until the painted wood digs into his skin. His body screams at him to rush forward, to yank Mike away from the man’s evil clutches. But doing that is like stepping onto the sun and allowing a rush of flames to flood his veins. Dangerous. It’s too dangerous. He’ll be burned to a crisp before he can even touch his friend. His fingers begin to quiver.

But when the executioner begins to speak, John freezes at the familiarity of the voice. It’s muffled by the dreadful helmet, the words distorted and squirming against the sides. But there is no mistakening the mumbling baritone carrying through the empty tea shop. As the killer’s heavy hand grabs the back of Mike’s collar, John tunes back into the monologue.

“. . . the order of the government,” he is muttering, a dull tone dragging down his words, “you are to be executed.” He releases a loud huff that slices the air. “Dull.” 

John feels something in his stomach clench. Mike twists his head around, and John feels his muscles stiffen. No, don’t look at me, his thoughts hiss, but they freeze as the warm pair of eyes catch his. The brilliant shade of green has grown duller with a mist of sadness, but a tiny glimmer of a smile is pushed up into them.

“Take care of the shop for me, yeah?” Mike says, a tiny smile quivering on his lips.

The executioner releases a snort and yanks at the shorter man’s collar. John swallows hard against the tightening walls of his throat. He can only stare as Mike is dragged out of the shop. The little bell whines as they leave. He stares at the two men wading out into the sunlight. A hollow feeling begins to dig around in his chest, clawing at his ribs. It’s only when Mike is being shoved into the executioner’s big, back truck that John is broken from his frozen state. He swallows hard. His fingers clench into tight fists until his nails dig into his palms. _No,_ he thinks and slides out from behind the counter. He can’t be imagining all of this.

=•=•=•=

John slams the executioner against the alley wall. “You,” he hisses as the other man’s hands scrabble against the bricks. He shakes his head and presses harder against the writhing body, preventing him from escaping. “I know who you are!”

The man stops struggling for a moment. “You must be mistaken,” he growls through the mask, the words heavy and distorted. “Let me go.”

The widening hollow in John’s chest is suddenly sprawling with betrayal and fury. “No,” he snaps. Before the other male can reply, one of his hands grasps the helmet. As a protesting gasp rises in the air, he wrenches it off of the metal suit just as long fingers snatch John’s wrist. 

“Don’t!” the killer gasps, his fingers grabbing at the helmet. 

With a clenched jaw, John rips it out of the loose grasp, yanking it off of the shaking head. Wild curls tumble free, spiraling in the air and falling over the crumbling face. Through a forest of dark hair, wide, green eyes meet dark blue ones. John stares at the stiff mask stretching over the violinist’s face. Their chests heave with heavy, labored breathing, nostrils flaring and gazes narrowing. 

“You,” John whispers, and his grip loosens on the helmet. It smashes into the ground with a loud clang, rolling around at their feet. “Is this . . .” 

The violinist’s lips tighten into a thin line. He surges forward, but rough hands shove him up against the wall again. The metal suit smashes into the bricks with a groan, its slender build quivering around his body. He grits his teeth and avoids the shorter man’s probing gaze, tilting his chin up to the gray sky above them.

John swallows hard. “Is this why you’ve always been disappearing?” he demands in a low, quiet voice. His eyes drop to the slender neck. With the helmet no longer blocking his view, he can see that the raised black marks are not scars at all. “A barcode,” he murmurs. It’s the government’s mark embedded in all executioners to ensure that they cannot escape their jobs. “How . . . how did you get out?”

Even if he can hear no traces of anger in the blond’s voice, the dark-haired man seems unwilling to meet his eyes. “Out of the facility?” he says. A low, humorless laugh rumbles in his throat. “Having a brother in the government has its advantages.” 

John’s grip tightens on him for a moment before it suddenly disappears. The executioner releases a quiet breath of relief, but his eyes widen as arms fling around his neck. He is being crushed, dragged down until he is bending over and leaning in a tight embrace. Through the thick metal suit, he can feel flares of heat pulsing from the smaller body. There is no escape, no running from the warmth surging all around him as his body is pressed against John’s.

"This," John is saying. "This doesn't change anything between us."

The dark-haired man swallows hard, trying to ignore the hope fluttering in his rib cage. "It . . . doesn't?" 

"Why would it?" 

Short fingers run through his curls. They brush against his scalp and leave tingles shivering through his nerves. It’s John. It’s all John invading his senses, beating down the shuddering mask that once protected the violinist from his charms. And he can do nothing but tremble with the urge to just surrender and allow him in. Because John accepts him for who he is, and – oh, God – how could he ever doubt the goodness of this wonderful creature? A shudder quivers through his weakening bones, and then more until his eyes flutter shut and he melts into the blond’s strong arms. He is overwhelmed by the waves of beautiful relief engulfing him, drowning him until he is weak at the knees with it. He buries his nose into John’s neck. He draws in a deep breath until his head is filled with nothing but the golden scent of his friend.

And then John’s voice fills the silence, soft and tender and filled with all the love that the violinist could ever wish for. “Do you want to run away?” he whispers.

As soon as the words fill his ears, the last of the musician’s walls coming crashing down. He clings onto John, trembling as the ache in his chest seems to dull down. Does he? Does he really want to run, to escape from the British government’s shadow? In the past, he never had a reason to, not with loneliness enveloping every part of him. How could he abandon London without any destination in mind, without any knowledge of what awaits him in the future? But now, he has John. His pink lips part, shifting closer to the older man’s ear and tracing its shell with hot breath. “Sherlock,” he says, imagining the name floating into John’s head. “My name is Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” John breathes. It sounds so beautiful on his tongue, all the syllables and letters quivering in his mouth. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “ _Yes._ Let’s run away.” And as his arms tighten around the golden man, he begins to realize that it doesn’t matter where they’ll go as long as they’re together. His bones ache with the desire to abandon the stretching streets of London and venture out into the unknown. To travel to distant lands with the thrill of being loved quivering in his chest. To wander to the ends of the earth with their fingers tangled together in a throbbing promise to remain with each other forever.

Sherlock will never get lost. Not while he has John.

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot was written for a competition. Like all my other oneshots, this one turned out to be longer than expected. I can't say I'm annoyed, but it did take a long time to write. One bloody month.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this! Kudos and comments make my day, so feel free to leave some if you want.


End file.
